For the Alive
by JamesLuver
Summary: Missing moments from the lives of the barber and the baker, from their endless lust to their exquisite pain, all in the name of each other. ON HIATUS.
1. Threat

**A/N:** As promised, the new set of drabbles are in progress now.

**Disclaimer:** I regret to inform you that I don't own Sweeney Todd.

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><p><em><span>For the Alive<span>_

_1. Threat_

Sweeney Todd grinds his teeth in unexplainable frustration as he stands on the wooden balcony, watching the crowds roil below with a predator-like gleam in his dark eyes. He clutches his silver friend so tightly that the etchings bite into his skin; when he unclenches his fist he sees the pattern tattooed there, an ugly, red brand. An animalistic growl rumbles lowly in his throat as he gazes upon a sight which has his blood boiling for a reason he cannot comprehend.

Below, Mrs. Lovett laughs, a hand resting suggestively on a gentleman's arm as she leans over the table, giving him a generous view of her bosom. The man in question cannot seem to drag his eyes further up than her chest.

Sweeney's temper rises a few more degrees upon the sight. He decides not to question his ire at the current time; instead he flings open the door to his shop and steps back inside.

He doesn't care. Of course he doesn't. He doesn't even _like_ her. He just doesn't like the idea of her parading around so, acting like a whore. It will be bad for business. The last thing he wants is her scaring away the customers by giving the place a bad name. The Judge will _certainly_ never come again if he thinks that the barber's shop is below him. The last thing Todd wants is for her to stop him getting his revenge.

Much later, when Mrs. Lovett brings up his dinner with a cheery, "afternoon, Mr. T!", he presses a hand against her shoulder and keeps her in place when she has placed her tray on the chest. She regards him with slightly confused eyes, though she is secretly rejoicing (and trying not to react to) the hand which is touching her bare skin; it is such a rare occurrence.

"Mr. T…?" she queries as he continues to stare at her. As much as she loves him, she finds it quite disconcerting when he looks at her like that; she can't quite work out what is going on behind those dark eyes.

He says nothing for a few more moments so she just stands there, leaning slightly into his touch. Just when she is almost sure that he has nothing to say after all, he voices abruptly:

"I don't want to see you doing that again."

Of all the things that she had been expecting him to say, this certainly isn't it. She frowns in confusion, tilting her head slightly to one side, as is customary when something puzzles her. "I don't know what you're talkin' about," she says. "Doin' what again?"

Once more he says nothing, his throat working almost undetectably, as though he is struggling for the right words – or perhaps they are ones he cannot bring himself to voice. "Doing what you were doing earlier."

"I still 'ave no idea what you're goin' on about, love," she says, adopting the tone she uses when she is mothering the street urchin. "'Ow can I know what not to do again if I don't even know what I'm supposed to 'ave done wrong in the first place?"

That same throat work. "Don't ever touch any man again like you touched that one today."

Mrs. Lovett's heart leaps from its place in her chest. She feels as though she is floating. Never in all of

the time since his return to London has he ever spoken to her in such a way. It makes her blood warm in her

veins, flushing her skin a charming scarlet. This is the response she's been waiting for ever since his arrival. It finally seems as though all of her dreams will come true.

"Don't be silly dear," she settles for saying. "I was only touchin' 'is arm. That's nothin' for you to get jealous over, it meant nothin'." Inwardly, she is rejoicing.

At once his blank face turns down into a scowl of disgust. His fingers bite into her skin. She is sure there will be a bruise there in the morning, but it doesn't matter. Not now. Not after this.

"I'm not jealous," he growls. "I don't give a damn about how you choose to spend your spare time. I just don't want you repelling customers with your whorish behaviour."

She chooses to ignore the last comment – after all, it is just the jealousy rearing its ugly (yet oh so welcome) head.

Instead she settles for gently retracting her arm from his grasp. He makes no move to stop her, which she takes as a positive sign. When she is free once more, she slides her hands to his face and cups it between her palms. His teeth grit, as though he is going to protest, and she waits for the space of two heartbeats. When he merely continues to stand there, she strokes her fingers against his cheeks.

"No need to worry, my love," she says softly. "I'm not one for entertainin' strangers after hours." She gives a lewd little wink. "I 'ave you for that. An' those men ain't never goin' to be a threat to you, I can promise you that."

She escapes then, whilst she still can, leaving him staring after her with a half-formed sneer and a glint of what might be relief in his eyes.

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><p><strong>AN:** Let me know what you think of this one by dropping me a line. :)


	2. Empire

**A/N:** This has little to do with the prompt. Oh well. I've not been practising my ST writing properly in a while, so I'm feeling a little rusty at the moment.

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><p><em><span>2. Empire<span>_

The door creaks open. A man enters. Sweeney Todd smiles at him, a smile that does not reach his haunted eyes. He takes the gentleman's coat. Helps him to a seat. Shrouds him in royalty. Shows him silver.

A flash, an arc, a squelch.

Red.

The chair slides backwards on its descent to Hell as the pedal is hit, emptying its contents into the belly of the bakehouse. There is a sickening crunch as skull makes contact with the unforgiving stone flags.

The chair rights itself.

Sweeney Todd stands in the middle of the room, blood trickling down his face and seeping into his clothes. Gore specks his hair.

He feels like a king.

Methodically, he begins to wipe his razor on his white cloth, inspecting it until it gleams silver once more.

He feels like a priest, accepting bloody sacrifices at the altar to appease a god who thirsts for nothing but blood. This is his shrine; he daily baptises in blood. He needs it. It makes him feel alive, if only for the moment.

To him, the rubies are more precious to him than gold, willingly given to him by the lambs brought in for slaughter.

He is the king of Hell, a priest to the Devil.

Swish, slash, drop. Swish, slash, drop. Works like clockwork.

A few seconds later, the door bursts open. Todd looks up, then back down immediately, interest lost: it is only Mrs. Lovett, bustling in with a bucket of soapy, hot water.

"Messy one this time I see, dear," she says, slopping water over the sides. He says nothing. He has nothing to say to her. She doesn't seem to require an answer anyway, with the way she barrels onwards in the conversation regardless of his level of interest – which is usually below zero. He just stands by and watches her mop up the blood he has spilled, like a willing little slave.

His eyes drift to his razor as he contemplates this.

She has done everything for him since his return to London with nary a protest of her own. It is as though she worships him like some god, as though his command is scratched in some faded copy of the Bible, orders which a devout Believer must follow at all costs.

He is God, dictating the terms with blood. She is the mocking vision of an angel, willing to follow his commands no matter the consequences.

And the rest of the world?

The rest of the world is his empire, and he has the power to choose who lives and who dies.


	3. Falter

_3. Falter_

_Did I just say that aloud?_

For Mrs. Lovett, time seems to stop. She stands there, frozen, her heartbeat loud in her ears, her throat dry and her senses strangely heightened.

She feels…she feels free.

Those words are finally out in the open. Those three words, the phrase she has whispered a thousand times over into her tear-soaked pillow wrapped in the night. Those three words, which have never been said to his face because she cannot bear the thought of him seeing her at her most vulnerable, not when his thoughts are strangled by yellow hair and red blood. Not when he doesn't see her.

Until now.

_I love you._ So simple. So powerful. So terrifying.

They hang in the air between them, like criminals at the noose. Three words, spoken with the heart-wrenching desperation of a woman who has nothing else to lose.

There is only the heady possibility of everything to gain.

But the silence continues to stretch on, and Nellie's cheeks flush an unsightly crimson as she realises that the barber still hasn't responded. Feeling more mortified and downhearted than she has in months, she begins to back away. Mayhaps he hasn't heard her; it won't be the first time –

And then he turns towards her deliberately, piercing dark eyes finding hers. The intense look in them has the baker's breath catching in her throat.

Because his eyes are not filled with hatred. He does not pin her to the wall with a razor to her throat, snarling at her, telling her that he never wants to hear those words again because they are sacred to Lucy. Instead they burn with an intense _sadness_ for both of them; he opens his mouth, as though he is going to voice the thought running through his mind:

_Neither of us are ever going to get what we want._

Before he can speak however, Todd's eyes harden again and he turns away, returning to his razor and thoughts of blond hair.

It's as if Nellie had never spoken in the first place.

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><p><strong>AN:** Again, this doesn't really have much to do with the prompt...but I kind of like it. Let me know your thoughts. ;)


	4. Compliment

**A/N:** Not gonna lie, this was an absolute bitch to write. And, once again, it doesn't really have much to do with the prompt. Hopefully the next update will be better, though it certainly won't be showing up for a while.

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><p><em><span>4. Compliment<span>_

Nellie hums to herself as she bustles around the kitchen, banging ingredients together for a fresh batch of pies. Candles flicker, sending shadows dancing across the walls as she works into the night. Toby has long since retired to the parlour with a bottle of gin, worn out from their hectic day in the pie shop.

"Want some more gin, love?" Nellie calls to her companion as she rifles through the spices in search of the coriander. Sweeney Todd nods his head, hidden in the darkest corner of the booth furthest away from her. The promise of as much gin as he wants is the only thing which has tempted him away from his empty barber shop for the night, but Nellie is determined to make as much of it as possible. Plonking a half-empty bottle down on the table, she decides to put off the pie making until the morning. No doubt she will regret it when morning comes round and she's rushed off her feet, but for now she decides to forsake practicality in favour of love.

"'Ard day for both of us today, eh, love?" she sighs as she picks up the bottle Todd has just pushed back into the centre, swigging directly from the bottle.

Todd grunts.

"I dunno," she muses, "it feels right nice just to sit 'ere doin' nothin'. I forgot what it feels like to not 'ave to rush around after other folk."

Another grunt. Nellie stifles a grin. If she didn't, she'd cry. Her Mr. T has such a way with words.

"You 'ungry?" she asks him. "You didn't eat your lunch."

"I suppose I am."

"I'll rustle somethin' up for ya," she says, leaping up at once, eager to please him as always. It doesn't matter that she is tired of work. She'll always push herself to the point of exhaustion in her vain attempts of getting him to see her.

"Pie all right for you?" she calls as she drops one onto a plate.

A grunt. She takes it as a yes.

Pushing it into the oven, she waits a few minutes for it to warm through. Whilst she's doing that she regards the barber curiously through the shadows. He is sitting with his shoulders slumped, as though the very weight of the world rests upon him. His eyes are staring sightlessly into his gin glass. He is turning it deliberately in the candlelight, as though he will glimpse a flash of yellow in its reflection if he catches it just right.

Tearing her eyes away, Nellie bends down to check on the pie. It seems to have heated through, so she gingerly grabs her cloth and carries it over to the table.

"Careful, love," she warns him as she places it in front of him. "Don't bite into it too early, else you'll burn yer tongue."

He ignores her, bringing the pie to his lips.

"Mr. T!" she scolds, hurt that he disregarded her words.

He chews for a few moments with not so much as a grimace, the permanent scowl not even lifting for a second. However, when he's finished his first bite, he actually deigns to speak.

"I spent fifteen god-forsaken years on Devil's Island, Mrs. Lovett," he says. "I have endured far worse than a burnt tongue in that time."

"Never suggested you 'adn't, dear," she sighs, secretly surprised that he's actually brought up his time in exile – it's something he's never done before. Still, she does not push the subject and he makes no move to prolong the conversation about it.

Realising that she is still standing in front of him, she slides into the booth across from him, grabbing the bottle of gin and quaffing directly from its neck again. She tries not to stare at him whilst he eats, but she cannot stop herself from stealing furtive glances at him. Seeing Mr. Todd eating is a foreign concept – he never seems to do it, and it's certainly not something she's ever bore witness to before.

It's _fascinating_.

Halfway through his pie, however, Mr. Todd scowls at her. "Stop staring at me, woman."

Nellie blushes. She'd been hoping that the barber was too engrossed in his task to truly notice her.

"Sorry, love," she says, tearing her gaze away, but she still can't stop staring completely. Todd gives an internal sigh of annoyance at this, but decides not to comment again.

Eventually the barber finishes the meal. He begins to stand without another word, draining his glass of gin and turning away.

Nellie tears her eyes away from his back to squint blearily at the clock. She hadn't realised how late it is until now. Nevertheless, she is desperate to stay in the barber's company for as long as possible, and calls out desperately, "one last tumbler o' gin, eh, love?"

The barber pauses for a second, and she thinks that perhaps the temptation of more alcohol will persuade him to stay.

He doesn't.

The door begins to open and Nellie feels an irrational urge to stop him from leaving. She doesn't, though, not wishing to provoke his temper. Still, it does not stop her from thinking, with something caught somewhere between a twinge of annoyance and a terrible, aching sadness, _he can't even wish me goodnight_ to herself.

Before he leaves, he turns once more to face her. Nellie's heart jerks in her chest, and she wonders if somehow he read her last thought. He opens his mouth, and she waits for that word that she knows he stole from her mind.

"That pie was edible by your standards," he grunts at her, before turning on his heel, leaving a very confused Mrs. Lovett behind him.

It isn't the goodnight she'd expected.

It's better.

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><p><strong>AN:** As usual, please read and review.


	5. Glass

**A/N:** Updates for this have been quite sporadic. I'll try and do better in the future.

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><p><em><span>5. Glass<span>_

One broken mirror means seven years' bad luck, so how many mirrors has he broken to deserve this?

Sweeney Todd stands in the middle of his tonsorial parlour, panting hard, hair standing on end, eyes wild with turmoil. His right hand hangs limply at his side; he doesn't seem to notice the constant pitter-patter of blood dripping from his split knuckles onto the wooden floorboards. Glass protrudes at sharp angles from each knuckle, shredding his skin painfully.

His thoughts swirl in a frenzied mess around his head, vying for his attention first; fleeting memories of rippling yellow hair and milky, delicate limbs and sunny blue eyes and shy kisses; memories of unimaginable pain and horror, of his body being pushed to the limits, the crack of a whip, slicing flesh from bone, praying for death to be quick and merciful; memories of _her_, being wrapped up in russet curls, lost in the musk of blood, of warm, naked skin being pressed deliciously against his own, gentle fingers gliding over hypersensitive scars, of kisses that tasted like addiction, warm and wet and heated. Memories of sweat building, of mounting gratification, of clawing release.

Memories he shouldn't even have. Memories that he certainly shouldn't be recalling.

Last night had been one stupid mistake, and he intends to keep it like that – just the once, a time to be forgotten.

_So why can't he forget?_

The mirror stands looking even more forlorn than usual, shards splintered on the floor like the remains of his heart. Now, with his head spinning with unwanted thoughts, he can blame stupid superstitions for his lack of control, for his disgusting behaviour. He cannot remember the whens or the wheres or the whys, only that Benjamin had broken the first mirror by accident by being far too over-zealous in his entertaining of Johanna, and Lucy _(sweet Lucy, darling Lucy)_ had chastised him worriedly by telling him to be more careful around Johanna and that he'd probably gone and given them all seven years' bad luck…

…And he'd laughed.

And then the Judge had banished him for life and his bad luck had been doubled with the fifteen years he'd spent in hell, having his body torn apart until he was only a shell. And his bad luck had been expanded even further when he'd returned home to find his Lucy dead and gone…

…And then last night. The night he'd spent in his landlady's bed, reliving an act that should have been reserved for his wife alone.

_You disgust me, Todd._

He stands in front of what remains of his mirror, staring angrily. His blood continues to trickle down his hand.

How many years has he extended his bad luck by? Another fifteen? More?

The door to his shop creaks open, stopping all thoughts there. With a snarl, he turns to face the intruder.

Mrs. Lovett.

"What do you want?" he growls at her, feeling at once for the razor at his side. It burns soothingly against his clenched skin.

She lingers in the doorway, but she does not seem afraid of him. "I was just wonderin' 'ow you are, love."

"I'm fine. Now leave me."

She does not move. "You sure you don't want no company?"

He is almost spitting the flames of Hell. "Does it look like I want any company from you! You had your poisonous way last night. I will not allow it to happen again!"

"Now, now, love," Mrs. Lovett purrs, venturing further into the room. She is using the tone of voice that might soothe a baby kitten, but will most certainly not tame a fierce tom cat such as he. "I didn't come 'ere with nothin' like that on me mind."

"I told you to leave me!" he all but roars at her, but she doesn't so much as flinch. Instead she stalks right up to him, the determined, feverish, feral expression on her face belying her previous statement. Small, calloused hands reach out to touch his shoulders. Copper curls snake around his body like live snakes, injecting deadly poison. Her brown eyes swim with the promise of oblivion.

He tries to push her away. Snarls and hisses and shoves. She will not let go. Her hands clamp like a vice to the sides of his face. Her lips careen towards his like a fatal arrow straight to the heart.

And he falls again, falls like the majestic kingdom of Atlantis.

One broken mirror means seven years' bad luck, so how many mirrors has be broken to deserve this curse of her for the rest of his life?

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><p><strong>AN:** Merry Christmas, everyone! Spare a thought for the review tin? :)


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